


Tuesday's Temptations

by tisiph0ne



Category: Historical RPF, Third Reich - Fandom
Genre: Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:06:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22083859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisiph0ne/pseuds/tisiph0ne
Summary: A nice hot bath...
Kudos: 21





	Tuesday's Temptations

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for a small Christmas exchange over at [Dreamwidth](https://nazisploitation.dreamwidth.org/807.html).

He takes a bath every Tuesday and Friday before dinner and every single time he is tempted to do it.

Sometimes, after undressing, he will brace himself on the wash basin for a moment and careful not to as much as glance at the mirror – he can't bear seeing his scrawny body reflected back at him – he will open the drawer. He'll pick up his straight razor, unfold it, look at the blade, gleaming sharp and enticing in the dim bathroom light. He shouldn't have it in the first place. He's using a safety razor for shaving – for all sorts of safety, not least to avoid temptation, but there it is, resting at the bottom of the drawer, waiting for him.

Sometimes he will go as far as to take the razor with him, put it on the small table next to the bath tub before he gets into the water.

Tonight is one of those days. He's cold and exhausted and, for lack of a better word, sad. Misery holds him fast in her cruel claws, and he can't help thinking how much he longs to put a stop to his suffering.

It would be so easy to end it. 

The water engulfs him, soft and hot, as he slides into the bath, melting the chilliness from his limbs. Berlin winters are cold, the east wind merciless, and his fragile body has no padding to protect him from its bite. No matter how tightly he wraps himself in his coat, he can never quite keep the warmth from slipping away and his fingers from turning to ice. Perhaps he burns too bright, his thoughts too passionate, his dreams too feverish, to leave enough energy for his body to stay warm.

Most times that notion is enough to reassure him he has a place in this world, a purpose. But every now and then doubt prevails. Turns into knowledge. Turns into certainty.  
What a sad excuse for a man he is, really. An embarrassment to their great nation. He would not survive a single day in the wild, much less on the battlefield. He's too feeble, too broken to live.

It's what makes him reach for the blade, again and again. But he is weak in every way. He can't muster the courage to do it. He is too much of a coward, even for suicide.

Instead, he comes up with excuses, things to live for. He clutches at them with the strength of a drowning man – his passion for the cause, the hot fervour of a speech, the thunderous applause it earns him, the soothing glow of importance, the heady sensation of praise, the reassuring clap on his shoulder. 

But there's more to it than that, isn't there? His life isn't just about intellectual, abstract gratification – unspeakable what that would imply! No, he is made of flesh and blood as much as every one of his comrades, and just like them he yearns for physical pleasure.

He turns the razor between his fingers as he contemplates the bliss of sharing a bed, the soft skin of a woman against his, the divine warmth of her mouth, the silky heat of her cunt. Perfection. But there are smaller delights he cherishes too – the cheerful crackling of a fire, the memory of the scorching summer sun, warm sand between his toes, the sweet burn of brandy, even the tar-black bitterness of coffee and the fiery scratch of cigarette smoke when he pulls it down into his lungs.

He could give up on all that, open his veins with a few quick slashes, bleed out in the hot water, quickly, quickly. It'd be almost painless, he assumes. Just slip away quietly. It'd feel like coming full circle, crawling back into a mother's womb.

He drops the blade, suddenly disgusted with himself.

It won't prevent him from returning to this train of thought again, another time, when the razor smiles its dazzling smile again, but for now he looks forwards to a drink and a hearty meal and the sweltering temperature of the dining room, then bed after that, cozy and soft. 

Or perhaps he can call on his mistress later. 

The thought warms him in a way no bath ever could. It coils searing hot in the pit of his stomach. A flare of desire rushes through him, making his cock twitch and harden. All cold and misery forgotten, he wraps his right hand around the stiffening flesh, giving himself a well-deserved stroke. After all, he earned it.

And just like that, he is his usual self again...


End file.
